“And make them what they should be,” added John, and the look of strong determination came into his face.
“Ah, yes,” said Joe, softly. “Make things what they should be. That is the best thing a man can live for.”
“Perhaps we might go home, Joe,” said Miss Schenectady, who had been conversing for a couple of hours with another old lady of literary tastes.
“Yes, Aunt Zoë,” said Joe, rousing herself, “I think we might.”
“Shall I see you to-morrow night at Mrs. Wyndham’s dinner?” asked John, as they parted.
“No, I refused. Good-night.”
As Joe sat by her aunt’s side in the deep dark carriage on the way home, her hands were cold and she trembled from head to foot. And when at last she laid her head upon her pillow there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks.
“Is it possible that I can be so heartless?” she murmured to herself.
Chapter XI.
Ronald went to see Sybil Brandon at five o’clock, and as it chanced he found her alone. Mrs. Wyndham, she said, had gone out, or rather she had not yet come home; but if Ronald would wait, she would certainly be in.